The Boats of the 'Glen Carrig', by William Hope Hodgson

People may say thou art no longer young

And yet, to me, thy youth was yesterday,

A yesterday that seems

Still mingled with my dreams.

Ah! how the years have o’er thee flung

Their soft mantilla, grey.

And e’en to them thou art not over old;

How could’st thou be! Thy hair

Hast scarcely lost its deep old glorious dark:

Thy face is scarcely lined. No mark

Destroys its calm serenity. Like gold

Of evening light, when winds scarce stir,

The soul-light of thy face is pure as prayer.